


Sugar

by MeansToOffend (goodmorning)



Series: Pick Me Up [15]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Didn't Know They Were Dating, M/M, Pick-Up Lines, St. Louis Blues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 05:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14278047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorning/pseuds/MeansToOffend
Summary: "So there’s really not much for Colton to do but train, which is nice but also, just occasionally, a teeny bit boring. Still, he’s mostly appreciative of it, most of the time.And then there’s Vova."





	Sugar

For as long as Colton can remember, he’s been brought up to be polite and accommodating. He’s not a pushover, of course; he knows he has value as an individual beyond what he can do for other people, and he makes sure to always take care of his own needs before he stretches himself too thin doing things for everyone else. One of the nice things about being in the NHL, though, is that the team takes care of a lot of the small favours he used to trade in juniors, backrubs and lunches and extra sock tape.

So there’s really not much for him to do but train, which is nice but also, just occasionally, a teeny bit boring. Still, he’s mostly appreciative of it, most of the time.

And then there’s Vova.

Vova, Colton is pretty sure, was brought up to be extremely demanding of everyone and everything, especially himself. He’s almost always the first on the ice, almost always the last to leave, and he almost always asks a teammate or two to stay and practice with him. Usually it’s forwards, especially Schenner and Schwartzy, people he can practice different passes with or try to improve his faceoff technique, just in case he should need it. Sometimes, though, it’s defensemen, Piets or Eds, or, even more occasionally, Bouwy.

It’s never been Colton, though. Every once in a while he takes the time to wonder why, but he’s never managed to draw any conclusions about it, one way or another. Maybe this is what makes him stand up when Vova says, “Today, I want defenseman.” His eyes linger on Colton for a moment before he nods, decisively, and heads back onto the ice.

Colton pulls his practice jersey back on and follows.

He knows from their everyday practices that playing against Vova is never easy - he’s strong, and heavy, and very fast, especially for someone his size - but he’s really not prepared for how difficult it is on wide open ice. Colton poke-checks the puck away; Vova steals it back, spins, picks a corner. Colton tries to lay a hit; Vova dodges, skates, snipes the other corner. After a while - the only Colton highlight of which is the one time he manages to steal the puck off Vova and slide it down the ice into the goal - he ends up just draping himself over Vova, impeding his motion that way.

“Ref will call this, ‘two minutes, holding,’” Vova says, with an edge in his voice like maybe he’s trying not to laugh. 

Colton smiles, though Vova can’t see his face, like this. “Ref is looking the other way,” he says, but he tries to make what he’s doing look slightly less illegal anyway, because it might come in handy in an actual game at some point.

“I have puck, though,” Vova points out, and Colton smiles a little harder.

“I never said he was a good ref.”

“Very stupid ref, to miss goal of the game,” says Vova, and twists free from Colton, firing the puck on net in one smooth motion, watching in satisfaction as it pings in bar down, and all Colton can do is gape at him.

He feels a bit deflated when he gets off the ice, until Vova turns to him and says, “Good work.” For someone so committed to perfection, he’s actually pretty free with compliments, but he always means them.

Colton can’t keep from smiling again. “Same to you,” he says, grin spreading over his face.

\--

After that, Vova keeps asking for him to stay, far more often than anyone else, and Colton rarely says no - not only because the extra practice is more interesting than anything he might otherwise be doing or because it’s actually helping his play somewhat, but also because he discovers he actually enjoys Vova’s company, that he’s not only a robot hell-bent on hockey-based world domination.

So it’s not hard, after morning skate one day, to accept his offer of lunch.

“I know some places,” Vova says through the steam, over the sound of running water and gurgling drains. “They know athletes.”

And Colton likes the sound of that, both the knowledge of athletes and the plural places, so he rinses out his hair and says, “Sure, let’s go.”

They sit outside. Colton almost never chooses to sit outdoors anywhere, not because he’s worried about being recognised but because he’s worried about being noticed, large and obtrusive as he is. Vova insists, though, and maybe he really should start eating outside more often, because it’s a nice day, sky impossibly blue and cloudless, especially for early December. It’s a little too chilly for most of the locals, maybe, but perfect for a Canadian and a Russian who have to brave Winnipeg a few times each winter. 

A busker, well bundled up, sets up on the opposite corner with a trumpet, running through what Colton’s pretty sure are some kind of quick warm-ups before sliding into something slow and sad and soulful. Vova gives Colton a look across the table, deep and heavy. It makes his skin prickle, makes him feel like he’s trying to touch something that’s both right next to him and a thousand miles away. The busker finishes a song, stops playing, and fiddles with a valve on the trumpet. The moment breaks.

They keep eating and talking, a long conversation about the decisions Vova would like Colton to make with the puck when they’re on the ice together. The busker keeps playing, cycling through songs - or at least Colton thinks so, though he’s not sure where any of them start or end - until finally Vova is paying the check and saying, “A stretch pass is nice, yes, but has to be perfect. If there is too much pressure for you, then I…” But this is the point where the trumpet winds its way back into the forefront of his attention, because this song is a song he knows somehow.

He closes his eyes to think about it, but it’s not until he opens them again, right on Vova’s curious face, that he remembers what it is.

When Jake had come in with his new mask, Eds had asked if the words on the side meant anything, and Jake had smiled. Practice that day had been soundtracked by cover after cover, and they had sworn never to let Jake be in charge of the music again, but the version that had closed out practice was like this, just one lone trumpet playing the tune he pretty much knew by heart at that point. 

_St. Louis Blues._

Maybe it’s meant to be a good joke, maybe it’s just a funny coincidence, but Colton drops twenty dollars in the open trumpet case when they walk by. Vova doesn’t say anything to him about it, just keeps talking about gaining the red line as the Busker segues into something Colton really hopes isn’t a blues version of a Lady Gaga song. 

\-- 

Colton is re-lacing his skates when Vova walks in, freshly cut sticks in his hand. He sits down in Dunner’s stall, right next to Colton, and that’s when he notices the problem. “Uneven laces?” he asks, sympathetically. 

“No,” says Colton, sighing. “I’m pretty sure it was meant to be a prank of some kind.” 

“Not very good one,” Vova comments, efficiently finishing the knob at the top of his third and final stick. 

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Colton says, and Vova stands up suddenly. 

It’s not, as Colton feared, because he was bitten or poked or stabbed by anything questionable, though. “Let me cut your sticks for you,” he says. “Will save time.” 

Colton considers. It’s not like his cut is particularly complicated; he’s too tall to take off any significant length, so usually he just cuts down the tiniest sliver from the end, to make the tape grip better. “You know how I like them?” he asks, just to make sure. 

Vova blinks at him. “Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. 

And maybe it is obvious, now that Colton is thinking about it. Vova probably knows how everyone cuts their sticks, really. He is a little bit like that with all things related to hockey. “Thanks,” he says, and manages to have both his skates laced back up by the time Vova gets back. “Perfect,” he says, when Vova hands the sticks to him. 

“I am not perfect,” says Vova. “No-one is perfect. We all have to work hard to become perfect, but we will never-” 

“I meant the sticks,” Colton interrupts, as politely as he can. “But you’re probably the closest thing to perfect that the Blues have ever had.” He smiles. 

Vova rolls his eyes and smiles back. 

All but one stick is taped before Colton remembers - it’s Pride Night, he needs Pride tape for warmups. Vova hands him some before he can even think to get up, and he suddenly feels - what? Close, the way they’re alone next to each other, and almost suffocatingly intimate. A thought hits him with the force and suddenness of a slapshot - Vova is Russian, how does he feel about Pride Night? 

But he’s not going to ask, not only because he doesn’t think it would be polite but also because he’s not sure he wants the answer. But Vova maybe catches his glance, or maybe just doesn’t have the same qualms, because he holds up his stick, rainbow bright from heel to toe, and and asks, “What you think?” 

Colton pretends not to understand. “Good tape job,” he says, and fusses with the lining of his elbow pad until Vova puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Vova says, and Colton sighs. 

“I think it’s good. Kids shouldn’t have to worry about shit like acceptance when they’re deciding their futures.” He pauses, weighing his own sexuality, and decides to ask. “What about you?” 

Vova hums softly under his breath, like he always does when he’s not thinking of what to say, but how and how much. “Is much easier here than in Russia,” he says, and he’s quiet for so long after that Colton’s not sure he’s going to go on. “Here, I am Vladimir Tarasenko, Russian sniper, very good at hockey. In Russia, I am Vova, yes, but am not Sasha or Zhenya, who might be allowed to get away with even murder. I am more easy to replace.” 

And he beckons Colton onto the ice as the rest of the team begins to filter in. 

\-- 

Neither of them mentions that conversation for quite a while, to the point where Colton starts to think it might just have been a strange dream. So it recedes in his memory, replaced by things of far more immediate concern, such as: Vova has invited him over to watch tape, tonight, and what should Colton bring with him, if anything? 

He settles for the nicest bottle of Russian - never Swedish - vodka he can find on such short notice. Vova raises an eyebrow at it, but thanks him without further comment, and the two of them settle in to Vova’s media room, sitting right next to each other despite its size. 

They really do watch tape, and Vova parses through it like a coach, asks questions about his thought processes, names better and worse decisions each of them could have made in every single situation, until finally he pauses the tape and looks at Colton. “This is fine, yes?” 

“You’re really good at this,” Colton says, hopelessly endeared. 

He turns back to the screen, but Vova speaks again. “Did you sit in sugar?” 

“I don’t think so. Why, did you leave-?” 

Vova sighs. “No.” 

“Then why-?” 

“Because you have a sweet ass,” he says, eyes fixed on the screen. 

And, “Oh,” says Colton, reaching out a hand, laying it on Vova’s shoulder. 

“Oh?” he asks, sounding more confused than anything else, turning to look at Colton. 

“Yeah,” Colton says, and slowly leans in to kiss him. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Colton Parayko is a Nice Canadian Boy, and this is one of two things I know about this roster.  
> \- I actually know less about this team than I do any team but the Wild, amusingly enough.  
> \- If Russia really has created a hockey robot it's definitely Vladimir Tarasenko.  
> \- [St. Louis Blues](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EkOcO5HXbk8) is a pretty simple composition but it's definitely effective. Also I highly recommend looking into the blues movement if you're even slightly interested in it, because it's pretty fascinating history.  
> \- Is the trumpet at Blues games real? Is it even a trumpet or is it some other brass instrument? Does the player empty the spit valve right there in the stands or do they do it in the bathroom instead?  
> \- Me: Maybe I should try not writing pining for a change.  
> Also me: _Let's turn the obliviousness up to eleven thanks_


End file.
